


One and Only

by curds_and_wheyface



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, M/M, possibly mild somnophilia?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5715343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curds_and_wheyface/pseuds/curds_and_wheyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels older than his years and bitter about how things turned out, despite the relative comfort they've managed to find...</p>
            </blockquote>





	One and Only

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not spiral off into a series, but stands alone as a one-shot.
> 
> Thanks to Noora and Selene for encouragement and typo-spotting! <3

  
The sun filters in through gaps in the roof and warms him in patches, threatening to burn if he lies there too long. Twenty feet away the waves hit the beach in roaring rolls and he matches the rhythm with his breaths.  
  
He's hard, like most mornings, and longs to reach down and take himself in hand.  
  
Tom stirs at his side, presses closer and let's out the little moan that usually signifies his waking.  
  
Blinking to wake himself up, Chris tilts his chin to look at him.  
  
He's beautiful, with his unnaturally-tanned skin and freckles across his nose, mop of uncontrollable hair tickling Chris's cheek as he looks his fill.  
  
Tom opens one eye long enough to catch him looking before snapping it shut.  
  
"Morning," he murmurs, shuffling closer still and trying to hitch his leg up on Chris's thigh.  
  
Chris doesn't catch him quick enough, the soft skin above Tom's knee sliding against Chris's clothed erection, and he swallows his groan and shifts away as best he can.  
  
It's how they tend to fall asleep, with Tom's head on his shoulder and one leg thrown possessively over Chris's body, but Tom fidgets a lot in his sleep and usually when they wake he's pulled himself further away.  
  
It's not until he rolls back to cuddle into Chris in the mornings that it becomes a problem, and the more Chris tries to break him of the habit the more determined Tom seems to be to do it.  
  
He tries again.  
  
"Stop," Chris grunts, pushing Tom's leg back down. There's some resistance, but despite his recent growth spurt Tom doesn't have the strength to really fight Chris's hold.  
  
"Why?" he mutters, half-asleep and pouting like a little kid.  
  
For a moment Chris says nothing, hoping that Tom will just drift back off to sleep, but then Tom tries to shift his thigh upwards a third time and Chris sighs.  
  
"You know why." He slides out from beneath Tom to kneel at the side of their makeshift bed, adjusting himself  in his once-white underwear despite the fact that Tom's eyes follow his hands. "And stop pouting, you're not a baby."  
  
He trudges down to the beach, squinting out across the sea for any sign of a ship but, as always, there's only open water all the way to the horizon. His heart used to sink, the hopelessness in his stomach swelling with each day that passed, but now he doesn't react at all.  
  
The sun is a deep orange, still climbing the sky, and Chris looks back at the tree line to make sure Tom hasn't followed him. There's a set of tall, jagged rocks in the shallows to the right, the sand there filled with shards of rock beaten away by the rougher waves. Tom doesn't like it there, likes to stay where the sand is soft, and so that's where Chris goes.  
  
He has to walk slow so he doesn't cut his feet but once he's hidden by the rock he leans against it, lets the sun-bleached warmth of it seep into his back, and releases his cock.  
  
The waves aren't rough this morning but they're so loud he can barely hear anything else, still he closes his eyes and tips his head back as he leisurely strokes himself, trusting that Tom won't follow him. He's been using this spot most mornings ever since...  
  
Well, it's been almost a year, if Chris has his days right.  
  
-  
  
"I think it's my birthday," Tom says conversationally as they eat side by side, looking out. Chris turns, watches him spit a piece of coconut shell into his palm and toss it into the greenery behind them. There's no sign that he's joking.  
  
"Tom," Chris groans, putting his coconut down. "I wish you'd tell me sooner."  
  
It's hard to keep a real track of the days. They judge by the weather, which is hardly an exact science, and every time the days are long with summer and the sun is high in the sky Tom will choose a random day to announce his birthday, leaving Chris scrambling to find him something akin to a gift.  
  
Some years he's prepared, when Tom doesn't make his announcement until late into the season, but the days have only just started to lengthen and Chris had expected to have more time.  
  
"Well I don't know until the day, it's just a feeling I get," Tom argues, drinking up the last of the milk from his half of the shell and nudging Chris to keep on with his.  
  
Coconuts make up a bigger part of their diet than Chris would like, but it's one of the only constant food sources they have, along with fish and plantain.  
  
They'd discovered the plantain in their first few months and mistook them for bananas, biting into them eagerly only to find them too firm and not very sweet. They use them like potatoes now, cooked with meals to help them feel full, and if they ever get too ripe to cook then Chris will slice them up to dry out beneath the sun like sweet, chewy potato chips.  
  
Some months there's a yellow herb plant they use for flavour too, but largely it's coconut, coconut, coconut.  
  
Chris pushes the shell away and Tom takes it, drinking it up. Chris doesn't mind; Tom's still growing.  
  
"You don't have to get me anything," he says, wiping his chin.  
  
Bad mood lifting a little in the face of Tom's sweetness, Chris sighs and lifts an arm around his narrow shoulders. "Of course I do."  
  
-  
  
He goes off into the green in search.  
  
Two years ago he found him a pearl while diving, shimmering away inside a broken mollusc. He'd been able to wrap the whole thing in leaves so that when Tom opened his gift he thought, for a moment, that Chris had gotten him a broken shell.  
  
"Open it," Chris had said, eager to for Tom to find his prize.  
  
Confused, Tom had murmured "I _have_ opened it-... _oh_. Wow."  
  
Chris had felt so proud of it, and though Tom had lost it somewhere in the sand less than a year later he still talked occasionally about the pearl Chris had given him.  
  
Tom had been thirteen then, which means that Chris will soon be approaching twenty six. He feels older than his years and bitter about how things turned out, despite the relative comfort they've managed to find on their small island.  
  
Marine engineering hadn't exactly been his dream but he'd been good at it and it meant he got to travel, boarding cruise ship after cruise ship to maintain and develop the systems on board, occasionally fixing damages in the middle of the ocean.  
  
Three years into his career Chris had stepped onto his thirteenth ship and scoffed at the notion that it was an unlucky number. His promotion - _lucky_ \- had planted him on the comfort of a private family yacht - _luckier_ \- and right into the path of Joe, a hot and mutually interested personal waiter similar in age - _luckiest_.  
  
It hadn't gotten very far, the thing with Joe. He'd been enjoying the cat and mouse process of securing a rendezvous with him down in the worker's quarters 'some time' when his luck ran out.  
  
To this day Chris tells himself it wasn't an engine failure, can't have been, but he'd awoken in the night with his cabin flooding.  
  
Rushing wasn't possible, not moving chest deep through salt water, but he'd waded as fast as he could down the corridor towards the stairs, glancing in on Joe's room and finding it already empty.  
  
_Fuck you, Joe._  
  
When he'd burst through the doors onto the deck he'd expected chaos, but aside from the roaring fire above the kitchen and the gurgling groan of the yacht beginning to tip, he'd found himself in absolute silence. Dazed, it had taken him almost a full minute to realise that the liferaft was gone.  
  
His only choice had been to dive, to swim as far away from the sinking mass as he could before it pulled him under with it. Grabbing a floatation vest and two life rings he'd run and made the jump, losing his breath in the shock of the freezing water.  
  
He'd already begun to swim away, turning back for one last look when he saw the boy. The family's only son, unconscious and hanging like a doll between the railings of the upper deck.  
  
"Fuck," he'd spat, weighing his options. And then he'd turned back.  
  
Tom had been ten years old then, a skinny little thing that Chris was able to grab with relative ease. He'd propped him in one of the rings and paddled them both far enough away to be safe, and Tom hadn't woken up even as the yacht let out one last regretful moan before finally being dragged under.  
  
Almost a day later, his knobbly knees had barely held him up as they'd crawled onto the shore of the miraculous island. His fair skin had been burnt deep red from hours of floating beneath the sun and he'd been skittish whenever Chris tried to help him walk up into the shade.  
  
They hadn't seen a single other person since.  
  
-  
  
"What is it?" Tom asks as he shakes the big green leaves loose and holds his gift out far away from himself like it might bite.  
  
Chris waits a second, but Tom's still looking at him expectantly as if it isn't plainly obvious what the gift is.  
  
"It's a skull," he says.  
  
Tom throws it across the sand quicker than if Chris had told him it was a live tarantula.  
  
"Chris! Why would you get me a skull? Why would I want that?" He rubs his hand on one of the big leaves at his feet, mouth pulled down at the corners. "Is it human?"  
  
Honestly, Chris isn't sure whether to laugh at the ridiculous question or be angry about Tom's rejection of the gift. He'd trekked for nearly two hours before finding that. He'd thought it was quite cool.  
  
"What humans, Tom? Of course it's not a human. Look how small it is, it's a monkey or something. Maybe a lemur."  
  
"Well I still don't know why you'd-"  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Tom," Chris stands up, walking a few feet away. He'd tried at first not to swear in front of the kid, back when he thought they'd be rescued and their predicament was going to be short lived. Once he'd resigned himself to the fact that nobody was coming he'd let the occasional one slip.  
  
He hears Tom move away from the carefully placed logs that equate to their sitting area, and clenches his fists.  
  
He tries, he really does, but at twenty one he'd had no idea how to deal with a ten year old boy and he's not much better now at dealing with a teenager. They'd become friends quickly, Tom depending on Chris for almost everything, and despite Chris not being equipped for raising a kid they'd stumbled along. Together they'd learned how to survive on the island, their island, and their codependency had evolved into a genuine attachment.  
  
Some days, the thought of being rescued and no longer having Tom by his side every day terrifies Chris. Other days he wishes he could paddle away and leave the little brat to fend for himself.  
  
"Sorry," Tom mumbles, coming over and picking up the skull. He pulls it towards his chest and tips his chin down to really look at it.  
  
Chris had picked it up because of how white it was, how perfectly formed and undamaged. He'd found it caught in the stream, washed clean by the current, the rest of the animal nowhere to be found.  
  
"It's kind of nice, I guess," Tom says then, rubbing two fingers along the smooth top. "Thank you."  
  
Chris shrugs. "I'm sorry it's not better."  
  
He accepts the hug when Tom steps into his space. His head is a mass of blonde curls and he's tall enough now to tuck it right beneath Chris's chin.  
  
It had taken a while to get used to how tactile he was, the boy, who got over his shyness and his grief with surprising speed and took to using Chris as a climbing frame or a chair whenever Chris made the mistake of staying still for more than ten seconds.  
  
Eventually he'd gotten too big to climb him and too proud to sit on his knee, but he refused to sleep apart. The depths of the jungle made noises in the night that woke Tom no matter how far away they were, and each time he awoke he used Chris's body as both a shield and a means for warmth in order to lull himself back to sleep.  
  
That closeness, it's what had led to...  
  
Chris doesn't like to think about it, the shame of it, but it's hard with Tom so close all the time, touching and hugging him, so tactile and affectionate.  
  
It had been nearly a year ago, Chris loosely calculates, one early morning. The sun had been warming him through the leaves they'd painstakingly fastened together to make their roof, and Tom had been curled at his side fast asleep. His sweet face had been tucked into the crook of Chris's neck, lips close, and his warm breath had felt so good against Chris's skin.  
  
Too good; almost as if the skin there, slightly damp beneath Tom's sleeping mouth, had been somehow hard-wired right to his cock.  
  
Already hard like most mornings, his erection had seemed extra insistent, extra needy, and he'd taken hold of himself with a light groan. Tom hadn't shifted, even as Chris began to palm at himself.  
  
He'd kept himself sane with the occasional wank beside the freshwater pool they used for bathing but he was always rushed and hunched over himself, never fully satisfied. The temptation of getting to come in bed for a change, and with a warm body pressed up against him, had been too much.  
  
He'd have been more leisurely about it, probably, if he hadn't be terrified of Tom waking up, so he'd taken to himself with speed, as rough as he could be without jostling his bed partner awake. He'd tugged insistently at his hard cock, rubbed his thumb across the head and been forced to swallow down the moan it conjured up.  
  
Tom had shifted at his side, breathing still slow like sleep but Chris hadn't been sure, and still he'd been unable to stop, too close to coming, feeling like a pervert as his body tightened, his other arm pulling Tom impossibly closer, panting out his pleasure into Tom's hair.  
  
Tom hadn't woken up, but Chris had rushed from their little bed with shaking limbs.  
  
Washing his hands in the sea he'd grit his teeth in anger, guilt and shame coiling in his stomach and winding up his throat until he was almost sick.  
  
Tom was just a kid, innocent, and Chris had let him down. Violated his trust.  
  
Ever since then he'd made sure to see to himself first thing in the morning, behind the rock where Tom won't see.  
  
The worst of it is Tom's growing curiosity, his propensity to stare overlong at Chris's body or linger around the freshwater once it's Chris's turn to bathe.  
  
Hugs like this, that Chris had always seen as innocent and affectionate in the past, seem somehow more calculated now, brought on not by Tom's need for a comforting touch but rather his desire to invade Chris's space.  
  
He clears his throat - and his mind - as Tom pulls away to sit back down with his skull, studying it.  
  
"You can do Shakespeare with it," Chris says for no reason at all, and Tom let's out the empty laugh that he does when he has no idea what Chris means.  
  
Tom brings it down to the shallow pools and sits it on a rock while they spear fish for dinner, juggling it beneath his arm as he carries both spears back up and Chris brings the few small fish they caught.  
  
"Careful with it," Chris tells him. "It's only bone."  
  
In response, Tom whacks him on the back of the head with the blunt end of the spear.  
  
"Skulls are hard," he says.  
  
-  
  
It's not birds or even the sun shining red behind his eyelids that wakes Chris, but Tom wriggling closer to him.  
  
He's got one thigh hitched up over Chris's legs, one hand planted flat on the ridges of Chris's stomach, and he's breathing too quickly to be asleep.  
  
He's hard against Chris's hip.  
  
Slowly, Chris exhales like he's still sleeping, doesn't open his eyes. If he lies here long enough then maybe Tom will go back to sleep or maybe grow bored and get up.  
  
But Tom stays where he is, breathing softly against Chris's jaw and wriggling impossibly close.  
  
Chris has seen him looking lately, caught curious eyes on him more often than ever before, and he tells himself it's normal. Teenaged exploration.  
  
Their blanket is threadbare and small, one that Chris made by unpicking all the stitches down one side of his nightshirt, and he feels it lift as Tom shifts his elbow up.  
  
It's not long before two slim fingers are tiptoeing down his stomach.  
  
"Tom," Chris warns, low, but those wandering fingers only pause for a second before carrying on.  
  
Chris reaches down for Tom's wrist but it's too late, his grip falters and a sharp breath is forced out of him as the base of his cock is taken in a loose hold.  
  
"Tom," he says again, trying to control the wobble in his throat. "You can't do that."  
  
In response, Tom tips his head up to mouth lightly at Chris's jaw and tightens his hold, beginning to stroke. "Why can't I?"  
  
Chris moans without meaning to, reaching for Tom's wrist again. It takes him a moment to find the self-restraint to stop him.  
  
"It's not right." His breathing is all off. He wishes he sounded more convincing.  
  
At first Chris thinks Tom is nodding, the way his nose nudges against Chris's cheek, but he's only leaning up to lay another kiss beneath Chris's jaw. "Are you sure?" he whispers.  
  
Chris hisses out through his teeth, and he doesn't fight it when Tom wriggles his wrist free and palms the underside of his cock.  
  
"Tom..." he says like a plea, a last-ditch attempt to put this to a stop, but the low groan that immediately follows renders it void.  
  
"It's okay," Tom tells him, lips a brush against Chris's cheek, and then he's lifting his hand to his mouth and licking his palm.  
  
"Jesus Christ," Chris grits out, parting his thighs a little more so that Tom has more room, and when wet fingers close around the head of his cock he can't help but thrust up into it.  
  
Tom sighs like he's relieved, like he knows he's won, and then he takes to his task with eagerness. Chris's stomach clenches as he hears the excited hitch in Tom's voice. "Does it feel good?"  
  
He can't offer any more than a nod. It's been so long since he had anyone else's hands on him and even the creeping guilt and shame isn't enough to stem the heat pooling in his groin.  
  
Tom hums. "Feels good when I do it to myself."  
  
Chris opens his eyes at that. "When do you-?"  
  
"When you do," Tom answers before he's even finished, like he was expecting the question.  
  
Chris has never caught Tom jerking off, which is probably weird considering how long they've been living in each other's pockets.  
  
"I lie here," Tom continues, his voice soft and slow. His strokes don't stop or even falter. "And I think about how you're doing the same thing, wherever you go. I think about you coming."  
  
"Oh fuck," Chris grits out, imagining it. All this time he'd been worried Tom would follow him, he'd had no idea that Tom was back in their bed doing the same thing, making himself come right where they lie every night.  
  
Chris reaches to take hold of Tom's fist.  
  
"No-" Tom hisses, panicked that Chris is trying to pull him away, but it becomes a broken moan as Chris threads their fingers together and begins to push his hips up into their joined hands.  
  
It's clear that Tom is getting off on it too, the way he rocks himself against Chris's side, and Chris's breath shakes out of him as he flattens his other hand at the small of Tom's back to encourage the motion.  
  
"How long have you thought about this?" he finds his voice enough to ask.  
  
Tom let's out a broken laugh, lets Chris control his fist while he concentrates on rolling his hips. "Forever."  
  
And that's a lie, of course, but Chris nods and presses his cheek against Tom's damp forehead. He's close, fucking up into the hot canal they've made with their hands, and Tom's excited little hitches against him spur him on.  
  
"Shit..." he grinds his teeth so hard his jaw aches, squeezes Tom close, and just like that he feels himself tip over the edge, spurting hot come onto their threaded fingers. He keeps their hands moving, stroking himself through it, and by the time he finally stops Tom's breaths are high and fast like he's close too.  
  
In a rush he throws Tom over onto his back and leans down, shoving his hands down between Tom's legs. He's hard and hot there and shoves up into Chris's hand, crying out.  
  
Chris leans down to quieten him down, and it's the first slide of Chris's tongue against his own that undoes him, has him tightening up until his toes curl and he spills against Chris's hand.  
  
For a moment they're just sharing hot breath, both a little dazed, and then Tom starts to shove at Chris's shoulders.  
  
"You okay?" Chris whispers, just as Tom twists away onto his stomach and buries his face in his arms. Trying not to panic, Chris rubs his back. Had he done something wrong? "Tom?"  
  
"I didn't mean to," Tom says, muffled, shoulders rising and falling deeply. "I didn't expect it to feel like that. Being kissed."  
  
It's only then that Chris really thinks about it. How that was Tom's first.  
  
He sits back, stunned by the weight of it. Somehow it seems more important than what came before, the fact that Tom had never even felt somebody else's lips against his own.  
  
He's always felt obligated to care for Tom, to feed him and make sure he keeps his wits about him, but...  
  
He pulls Tom around to look at his face.  
  
...since it's just the two of them, all alone, maybe he has other obligations too. To make sure Tom experiences all the things he should.  
  
"Don't be embarrassed," he says, rubbing his palm down Tom's stomach. It's so flat, his ribs visible when he sucks in a deep breath. "I didn't think. I should've realised it was your first kiss."  
  
Tom laughs, his sweet face pink from his orgasm and the little bout of shame. Chris has the sudden urge to kiss him again.

"I've wanted you to kiss me for so long."  
  
And weirdly, that makes Chris feel as guilty as the handjob. The idea of Tom waiting for him, wishing for it. He'd been oblivious.  
  
"We'll just..." he sighs, lying back down and tugging Tom over to lie against his side. His heart's still beating fast and he knows Tom can hear it when he rests his head down. "We'll just take things slow. Okay?"  
  
Snuggling in, Tom slips his arm across Chris's stomach and nods. "Okay."


End file.
